Golden Fox

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘I have a message for you, in the form of a videotape recording.’ He stepped down from the dais and took the chair at the end of the row furthest from her.

  As he settled into it, the overhead lights dimmed. She heard the faint hum of electronic equipment, and then the screen lit up. The scene it displayed was a bare white-tiled room – a laboratory or an operating-theatre, she decided.

  There was a table in the centre of the room, and on it was a glass-sided tank much like one of the aquariums in which ornamental tropical fish were displayed in a pet shop. The tank was filled with water to within a few inches of the top. On the table-top beside the tank stood some sort of electronic cabinet and an array of instruments and medical paraphernalia. She recognized a portable oxygen-cylinder and an oxygen-mask. The mask was a diminutive model suitable for infants and very small children.

  A man was busy at the table. His back was towards the camera and his features were hidden. He wore some type of white laboratory-coat. He turned to face the camera, and Isabella saw that he wore a cloth theatre-cap and surgical mask.

  His voice was dispassionate as he began to speak, and his accent was foreign, east European. He seemed to be addressing Isabella directly out of the screen.

  ‘Your orders were to speak to nobody, not in Malaga or elsewhere. You deliberately disobeyed those orders.’ He was staring at her from the screen with disembodied eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she replied, as though he could hear her. ‘I was so worried. I couldn’t—’

  ‘Silence!’ hissed one of the women behind her chair. A hand fell on her shoulder, fingers dug into her flesh with a strength that made her wince.

  On the screen, the man was still speaking. ‘You were warned that your disobedience would have dire consequences for your son. You chose to ignore that warning. What you are about to witness is a first demonstration of the seriousness of those instructions.’

  He made a gesture to somebody off-camera and a figure entered from the side. It was impossible to tell whether it was male or female, for it also wore a cloth cap and surgical mask that covered all the face and head except for the narrow strip across the eyes. A full-length surgical gown fell to below the knees and was tucked into the tops of white rubber boots.

  ‘This is a qualified doctor who will monitor all the proceedings,’ he explained.

  The figure carried a bundle in its arms. Only when it deposited the bundle on the table beside the glass-sided tank and a tiny bare leg kicked free of the swaddling cloth, Isabella realized that it was a child. With quick trained hands, the doctor unwrapped the infant, and the video-camera zoomed in on Nicky as he lay naked on the table-top kicking his legs in the air, and his gurgles sounded in the quiet room.

  Isabella thrust the fingers of one hand into her mouth and bit down on them hard to prevent herself crying out again.

  The doctor placed two small black suction cups on Nicky’s bare chest. Thin wires dangled from them, and the doctor connected them to the electronic cabinet and switched it on. The digital figures in the panel lit with a green glow, and the narrator explained in a neutral voice: ‘The child’s breathing and heartbeat will be recorded.’

  The doctor looked up from his equipment and nodded. The narrator moved around behind the table and faced the camera.

  ‘You are Red Rose,’ he said with peculiar emphasis on the name. ‘And in future you will obey all orders given to you by that name.’

  He reached down and took both of Nicky’s ankles in one hand and lifted him. Nicky let out a squawk of surprise as he hung head-down like a small pink wingless bat.

  ‘You are about to witness the consequences of disobedience.’

  He swung the child and held him head-down over the glass-sided tank. Nicky arched his back and tried to lift his head, he waved his arms and clenched and unclenched his fists, making small noises of uncertainty and alarm. Slowly the narrator lowered the child head-first into the water, and the sounds of his little voice were cut off abruptly. The video-camera zoomed in through the glass side of the tank and focused on his face below the surface of the water. The colour resolution of the film was true to life.

  Isabella screamed wildly and tried to struggle out of her chair. The two women seized her from behind and forced her down again.

  On the screen Nicky struggled in the narrator’s grip. Underwater his face was contorted and silver bubbles streamed from his nostrils. His face seemed to swell and darken.

  Isabella was still screaming and fighting when on the screen the masked doctor looked up quickly from the heart monitor and said sharply in Spanish: ‘Stop! That is enough, comrade!’

  Immediately the man lifted the child clear of the tank. Water streamed from Nicky’s nostrils and open mouth, and for long seconds he could not utter a sound, except for his tiny gasping breaths.

  The narrator laid him down on the table, and the doctor clapped the oxygen-mask over his swollen face and pressed down on his chest with the palm of his hand to induce regular breathing. Within a minute the digital readout on the cabinet had settled back to normal and Nicky’s movements were stronger. He howled into his mask with shock and outrage, his voice becoming louder and stronger with each cry.

  The doctor removed the mask and stepped back from the table. He nodded at the narrator. Once again he seized Nicky’s ankles and lifted him over the tank. Nicky seemed to realize what was coming. His cries of protest reached a higher terrified pitch, he kicked and writhed in the man’s grip.

  ‘He’s my son!’ Isabella screamed. ‘You can’t – you mustn’t do this to my baby!’

  The narrator lowered Nicky’s head once again below the surface, and the child fought with all his strength. His frenzied exertions racked the tiny body, water splashed over the edge of the tank, and once again his face changed colour swiftly.

  Isabella screamed at him. ‘Stop it! I’ll do anything you say, just stop torturing my baby! Please! Please!’

  Once again the doctor intervened with a sharp warning, and this time when Nicky was lifted clear of the water his movements were weaker. He made little choking, cawing sounds, and a mixture of water and vomit erupted from his open inverted mouth and silver strings of mucus slid down from his flared nostrils.

  The doctor worked swiftly, his alarm apparent, and he said something to the other man. The narrator looked up at the camera, seeming to stare directly at Isabella.

  ‘We almost miscalculated that time. We exceeded the limit of safety.’ He and the doctor put their heads closer together and spoke so softly that Isabella could not catch the words, and then the narrator addressed her again. ‘That concludes our demonstration for the time being. I sincerely hope that it will not be necessary for you to witness another like it. It would be harrowing for you to have to watch the amputation of the child’s limbs without anaesthetic, or eventually his strangulation in front of the camera. Of course, it will depend on you, and the degree of co-operation that you are prepared to afford us.’

  The image faded, and the screen went blank. There was no sound in the darkened theatre except Isabella’s sobs. These lasted for a long time. When they finally quietened the lights were raised slowly and Joseph Cicero came to stand over Isabella.

  ‘I assure you that none of us takes any particular pleasure in this sort of thing. We will try to avoid any repetition.’

  ‘How could he do it!’ Isabella whispered brokenly. She was huddled down in the large chair. ‘How could any human being do that to a child?’

  ‘I repeat, we do not enjoy the necessity. You must blame yourself, Red Rose. It was your disobedience that caused your son’s discomfort.’

  ‘Discomfort! Is that what you call the torture of an innocent . . . ?’

  ‘Control yourself,’ Cicero warned her sharply. ‘For your child’s sake, control your insolence.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Isabella dropped her voice. ‘It won’t happen again. Just don’t hurt Nicky again, please.’

  ‘If you co-operate, your son will not h
ave to suffer further. He is in the care of a highly trained paediatric sister. He will receive the type of professional care that even you would not be able to give him. Later he will be given the best education that any boy or young man could hope for.’

  Isabella stared up at him, her face twisted with misery. ‘You speak as though he has been taken away from me for ever, as though I will never see my baby again.’

  Cicero coughed and shook his head, struggled to regain his breath and then whispered hoarsely: ‘This is not the case, Red Rose. You will be allowed to earn the privilege of access to your son. To begin with you will receive regular reports of his progress. You will be shown video recordings of how he develops, when he first sits up unaided, when he begins to crawl, to walk.’

  ‘Oh no!’ she whispered. ‘You can’t keep him from me that long. It will be months.’

  Cicero went on as though she had not spoken. ‘Later you will be allowed to spend some time with him each year. It is possible that some time in the future, if your conduct is satisfactory, you will be allowed to spend holidays together – days, even weeks in your son’s company.’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was a pitiful sob. ‘You can’t be so cruel as to keep us apart.’

  ‘Who knows, it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that one day we may remove all restrictions and allow you free access. For that to happen you would have to earn our complete trust and gratitude.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Isabella asked in a small subdued voice. ‘Who is Ramón Machado? I thought I knew him so well and yet I did not know him at all. Where is Ramón? Is he part of all this monstrous . . . ?’ Isabella’s voice broke, and she could not continue.

  ‘You must put aside all thoughts of that nature. You must not seek to find the answer to the question of who we are,’ Cicero warned her. ‘Ramón Machado is under our control. Do not expect help from him. The child is his also. He is under the same constraint as you are.’

  ‘What must I do? What do you want of me?’ Isabella asked. And Cicero nodded with satisfaction. There had been a remote chance that the woman might prove headstrong and uncontrollable. The psychiatrist’s report on her had mentioned that possibility, but Cicero had never placed much credence in it. The hook on which they had hung her was sharp and fiercely barbed. Even if the child died, they would find a replacement to act in the video games and keep her dangling on the hook. No, he had expected her to be compliant, and those expectations had been vindicated.

  ‘First, I must congratulate you, Red Rose, on your doctorate. It will make your work for us easier.’

  Isabella stared at him. It was difficult for her to make the mental leap from this terrifying world of torture and espionage back to the prosaic consideration of her studies and academic honours. She had to concentrate to keep up with what he was saying.

  ‘You will return as soon as possible to Cape Town and your family, after making arrangements at the University to receive your doctorate in absentia, do you understand?’

  Isabella nodded, not yet trusting herself to speak.

  ‘On your return home, you will begin to take more interest in all the family activities. You will work to make yourself indispensable to your father. You will make yourself his assistant and confidante in all things, but especially in his new position as head of the armaments corporation. What is more, you will begin to take an active interest in South African politics.’

  ‘My father is a self-contained man. He does not need me.’

  ‘You are wrong, Red Rose. Your father is a very lonely and a basically unhappy man. He is incapable of a lasting relationship with any woman, except your grandmother, his mother, Centaine Courtney-Malcomess, and with you, his daughter. He needs that relationship very deeply – and you will give it to him.’

  ‘You want me to use my own father?’ she whispered, horror blending with fresh horror in her eyes.

  ‘For the survival of your son,’ Cicero agreed softly. ‘No harm will come to your father, but your son stands full in harm’s way unless you co-operate.’

  Isabella took a handkerchief from her handbag and blew her nose. Her voice was soggy. ‘You want me to inveigle myself into my father’s confidence to gain information on the national armaments programme and pass it on to you?’

  ‘You learn quickly, Red Rose. However, that is not all. You will use your father’s political contact within the South African Nationalist régime to foster your own political career within the party.’

  She shook her head. ‘I am not a political creature.’

  ‘You are now,’ Cicero contradicted her. ‘You have a doctorate in political theory. Your father will introduce you to the corridors of power.’

  Again she denied it. ‘My father is in political eclipse. He backed the wrong horse when John Vorster came to power in South Africa. That was why he was shunted into the ambassadorial post here, into political oblivion.’

  ‘Your father has exonerated himself by the way he performed his duties here in London. His appointment to such a responsible position as head of Armscor is indication of that. We anticipate that soon he will be totally reinstated within the party. We deem it highly probable that within two years he will be once more a member of the Cabinet. You, Red Rose, will ride upon his back. In twenty years from now you yourself could be a minister of the Government.’

  ‘Twenty years!’ Isabella echoed in disbelief. ‘Is that how long I must be your slave?’

  ‘You still don’t understand?’ Cicero asked, shaking his head. ‘Let me explain it to you. You belong to us, Red Rose, you, your lover Ramón Machado, and your son, for ever.’

  For many minutes Isabella stared sightlessly at the blank screen, contemplating the enormity of the vision that he had conjured up for her.

  Joe Cicero broke the silence. His voice was almost gentle. ‘You will be taken back now. They will leave you where they found you, on the Embankment. Follow your orders, Red Rose, and in the long run it will work out well for you and your son.’

  The women attendants helped Isabella to her feet and led her to the door.

  When she had gone, the side-door to the lecture-theatre opened and Ramón Machado stepped through. ‘You were watching?’ Joe Cicero asked, and Ramón nodded. ‘I congratulate you,’ Joe murmured reluctantly. ‘It has been well run. We may reap much of value from this operation. How is the child?’

  ‘He suffered no ill-effects. He and his nurse have arrived in Havana.’

  Joe Cicero lit another cigarette and coughed and sat down heavily in one of the plastic chairs.

  Perhaps . . . he thought, just perhaps I will be able to leave the department in capable hands.

  Amber Joy was about to ‘fail to find’. They could all see it. A palpable air of tension and expectation hung over the entire field of the trial. The South African retriever championship trial was being conducted over the foothills of the Kabonkel Berg along the western end of the Weltevreden estate. The terrain was testing, and over the two days of the trials the field of dogs had been whittled down to these four still in the hunt.

  The birds were mallard ducks, pen-reared on Weltevreden and placed in the field under the supervision of the judges prior to each retrieve. This would probably be the last occasion on which they would be allowed to use mallards, Shasa Courtney reflected. The conservationists were kicking up such a terrible stink about unshot mallards escaping into the wild. There these exotic birds were highly attractive to the indigenous yellow-billed ducks. Avian Don Juans, he smiled.

  The progeny of these illicit unions were hybrids, and the Department of Nature Conservation had proclaimed a ban on the release of mallards which would become effective at the end of the month. Thereafter they would be forced to use ring-necked doves or guinea-fowl, which was a pity, they all agreed. These terrestrial birds did not float well on the water-retrieves.

  Shasa Courtney switched his full attention back to the retrieve in progress. Amber Joy was the main competition to Weltevreden’s hopes of carrying off the cup f
or the first time. Amber Joy was a splendid yellow Labrador. His sire had been American field-trial champion for three years in a row. Up until now every single retrieve that he had made during the last two days had been SOB, straight out and back. This time fortune had turned against him. The mallard had risen from its cage and flashed away along the edge of the dam. Garry Courtney and Shasa were the field-guns, chosen for the task because both of them were renowned shots. The mallard was flying left, Garry’s side, and he had let it go to fifty yards before killing it so cleanly that it folded its wings and went in head-first like a kamikaze. It fell close in to the reed-beds, amongst the lily-pads and ‘water blommetjies’, the flowering aquatics that infested most dams in the Cape of Good Hope. The mallard’s plunge drove it deep, and it had not re-emerged. Probably it was entangled with the plant stems below the surface of the muddy brown water.

  The judge had called Amber Joy’s number, and Bunty Charles, his owner and handler, had sent him away. While the spectators crowded the dam wall to watch, the dog had taken to the water and swum out towards the spot where the mallard had disappeared. However, he had deviated from the true line as he swam, going up above the bird where any blood would drift away from him on the faint current set up by the in-flowing river and the gusty southeaster which was sweeping across the open water.

  Now Amber Joy was paddling around amongst the reeds in erratic circles, occasionally ducking his head below the surface but each time coming up with empty jaws, and a little further from the spot where the duck had plunged.

  His efforts were causing consternation on the bank. Bunty Charles was dancing from one leg to the other in frustration. If he whistled and redirected Amber Joy on to the fall of the bird he would lose points. There was still no guarantee that Amber Joy would find even with this assistance. On the other hand, time was running out. The three judges were already consulting their stop-watches. Amber Joy had been in the water for over three minutes.

  Bunty Charles flashed an anxious glance at the next handler and dog in the line. Centaine Courtney-Malcomess and Dandy Lass of Weltevreden were his most bitter rivals. Up to now he and Amber Joy had managed to hold them off, but only by ten points. If they failed to find, they would certainly forfeit their hard-won lead.